Boyfriend is a student without much money (partly because he spends it on hard-backed books and travelling to London so we can rendez-vous). He intends to economise, rather than sacrifice all those Loebs, he decides to make his own booze. His mother, coming from a famous family of brewers, makes a pretty good home-made beer so he feels he is on safe ground and starts to make wine.
I come down for the weekend and we set off to a party. I suggest we pool our money to buy a bottle. Looking very pleased with himself he says he has something better than a bottle and produces a demi-john of dark red liquid - as he has not got vampiric tendencies I presume it might be alcohol. Yes, his new speciality - loganberry wine. Loganberries chosen as they are the cheapest canned fruit available in the local Co-op and brought back to his room to have alcoholic magic wrought on them - sadly no pigeage is necessary - always fancied a bit of leaping around in a tank of grapes. I am not convinced of the wisdom of his actions and, it must be admitted, somewhat ashamed to be seen with a bloke carrying a demi-john up the Turl. When we arrive the party is in full swing, I hang back so as not to be associated with the flagon, it would not be good for my image - people will think I like folk music and country dancing next.
People go to the drinks table, eye up the home-made wine and ask who brought this - in a tone that says 'What completely sad git thought this was a good idea.' I give Boyfriend a firm kick and hiss, 'Keep your mouth shut or else'. He knows better than to disobey.
We watch as the bottles of beer go, then the dodgy vodka with a label in no language recognisable to man, woman or philologist, then the wine boxes are emptied. We drink cheap cider and pomagne - until finally the flagon sits alone and virtually untouched on the table. Even in desperation no one wants to drink loganberry juice with a delicious yeasty-after taste; people warn each other off. We leave - no reason to stay now the drink has gone. Downstairs Boyfriend says, 'Won't be a minute' and races back upstairs.
He reappears with his beloved flagon hidden under his coat, ' We can drink this when we get back - waste not want not.'
Decide I don't like this Scrooge-like persona and tell him pretty damn quickly. Home-made wine making stops fairly soon after.
More of the Boyfriend at Me and philosophy Me, boyfriend and how I finally crack maths